


All of the Other Reindeer

by wingedspirit



Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [20]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (listen the archangels are bullies AT BEST no matter how you slice it), 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge (Good Omens), 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), Bullying, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rated T for swearing and two extremely rude jokes, cw: gabriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21875773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedspirit/pseuds/wingedspirit
Summary: It's not always easy; some things leave scars.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560823
Comments: 20
Kudos: 229





	All of the Other Reindeer

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight)’s [advent calendar prompt list](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294/aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour-youve-been) (day 20, reindeer).

In retrospect, Crowley really should’ve noticed this sooner; although, in his defense, it’s only now that he gets to spend most of the day, every day, with Aziraphale. They never could have, before.

The first time he can remember it happening, they’d been looking for a gift for Warlock. Aziraphale had suddenly stiffened, and set down the snake stuffed toy he’d been looking at. “Do you know,” he’d said, “it occurs to me that Warlock is perhaps a little too old for stuffed animals, by now. Shall we see if we can find something more age-appropriate in the Waterstones nearby?”

Crowley had privately doubted that — Warlock had never been much of a reader — but he’d shrugged. “You go, I trust your judgment in terms of books. I’ll keep looking through here. I think I saw a telescope that looks half decent. I’ll meet you there after.”

Aziraphale had nodded, and had practically fled. Crowley hadn’t given it much thought, then, more focused on finding a gift that somehow said ‘I’m sorry I left you when I figured out you weren’t the Antichrist, and I’m very happy you still want me in your life’. (He had, in the end, bought the telescope, and, after some consideration, the stuffed snake as well.)

It had happened again in a coffee shop, with Aziraphale setting down his cutlery halfway through a slice of cake and declaring he hadn’t been that hungry, after all, and did Crowley want to go for a walk in St James’s?

Then there’d been the busker Aziraphale had ignored, and outright speed-walked away from. Crowley had never seen that happen before.

Then there’d been the time they’d walked into the Ritz, and Aziraphale had stopped, and turned on his heel, and claimed that, actually, on second thought, he felt like having sushi for dinner.

And Crowley had, by then, managed to put two and two together; but he hadn’t wanted to call Aziraphale out on it in public.

They’re in private now, though. They’d been cuddling on the sofa, with an endless playlist of Christmas songs from some music service or other playing softly in the background; and Aziraphale had suddenly sat bolt upright, and declared he wanted some cocoa, and fled to the kitchen.

And so Crowley follows. “What’s your problem with that song?”

Aziraphale stiffens. “I don’t know what you mean. I just wanted cocoa, I told you.”

Crowley sighs. “Angel. Aren’t we beyond lying to each other, by now?”

“I —” Aziraphale hesitates. “You’re going to think I’m ridiculous,” he says, eventually, resignedly. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just being too sensitive.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Crowley says, gently. “Come on. Talk to me.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale turns to face him and sighs, so deeply he looks a little like he’s deflating, misery written in every line of his body. “Can you —”

Crowley opens his arms, helplessly; Aziraphale crosses the space between them quickly, all but burrowing in his embrace. “The music’s off,” Crowley says, between kisses pressed into Aziraphale’s hair. “Let’s go back to the sofa?”

Aziraphale nods; and Crowley, instead of letting him pull away, hoists him up in his arms and carries him back to the living room. It takes a bit of wrangling, but eventually they find a comfortable position, Crowley sitting on the sofa, Aziraphale lying down with his head in Crowley’s lap and Crowley’s fingers gently carding through his hair.

“It all started back in the thirties,” Aziraphale begins, slowly. “I got called up to Heaven for a meeting with Gabriel. He’d recently visited America, and had seen some advertisements using the image of Santa Claus, and he was _furious_. He strongly felt the whole thing was a perversion of the image of Saint Nicholas, and absolutely must have a demonic origin, and he berated me for not putting a stop to it.”

“What a prat,” Crowley mutters.

“Yes, well —” Aziraphale cuts himself off, his lips pressing together in a thin line, the way he always does when he remembers he doesn’t have to disagree with Crowley on that, not anymore. “Nevertheless. I told him I had ascertained that the forces of Hell had nothing to do with it — it didn’t seem the kind of thing you would do, somehow — and that I had already begun the process of turning Santa Claus into a symbol that would further Heaven’s agenda, persuade even those who weren’t religious to do good deeds. Told him I’d have a full report on that in a decade or so.” 

“Clever,” Crowley says, still stroking Aziraphale’s hair.

“Yes, I rather thought so; and I thought that was the end of it, that he’d just forget about the whole thing. And he did, for a while, but then, in ‘52, he sent me a message asking me about the report. By then, the humans had done most of the work themselves, of course, so I had no issue putting one together. I included all sorts of information — poems, stories, songs — you know, ‘he knows if you’ve been bad or good’, that kind of thing. And again, I thought that was the end of it.”

“But it wasn’t.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, and sighs. “A year later, I got called up to Heaven again. All of the Archangels were waiting for me, and when Gabriel saw me, he said — he greeted me with, ‘Ah, here’s our Rudolph!’.”

“He _what_ ,” Crowley says, strangled.

“Apparently, of all the material I sent in that report, _Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ really made an impression. Gabriel said it reminded him so much of me, of how good I am at — at turning my weaknesses into strengths.” Aziraphale’s voice is entirely flat. “I got a commendation for that report, there was a ceremony, they even invited some high-ranking Seraphs. And I got treated to a rousing performance of the song, arranged by Uriel for angelic choir.”

It’s a very good thing Crowley has had a lot of practice keeping a tight lid on his anger. “So you did what they asked, and they humiliated you in front of high-ranking Seraphs and a _whole angelic choir_ —”

“Well, no.” Aziraphale frowns. “I don’t think that was their intent. They seemed happy.”

“But that was the _result_.”

“They just didn’t realise, I’m sure. You know how they are — just think of how they completely missed the message of _The Sound of Music_.”

“‘They’re probably just idiots’ is hardly the sterling defense you seem to think it is, angel,” Crowley manages, through gritted teeth.

“I can hardly blame them,” Aziraphale insists. “It _is_ a very catchy song. It was rather popular in Heaven, for a few decades. And, of course, Gabriel kept using the nickname for quite a while. It got to the point that I could hardly go anywhere in Heaven without someone humming the refrain, and it was all a bit — much. But I’m sure they meant well, and it shouldn’t get to me like this. Like I said — I’m being too sensitive. It’s just a song.”

“Well, I blame them. They knew _exactly_ what they were doing, and they did _not_ mean well,” Crowley says, firmly, doing his best to keep the growl out of his voice. He already knew, of course, that this was how Aziraphale had been treated. But every time a new bit of it comes to light, every time he learns another way his angel had been made to feel small, and pitiful, and unworthy — every time, he finds himself furious, all over again. “‘You’ve always been different and we’ve always hated you and belittled you for it, but to our collective shock, it’s actually come in handy, so just this once, and very much against our better judgment, hooray for you, we guess.’ That is _completely fucking appalling_.”

Aziraphale shrugs, jerkily, and rolls over, sitting up halfway and burying his face in Crowley’s chest. Crowley holds Aziraphale close, and strokes his hair, and forces himself to ignore the way Aziraphale’s shoulders are shaking with sobs, the way his shirt is growing steadily more and more damp with Aziraphale’s tears. He’s learned the hard way that when it gets to this point, the best way to console his angel is to just let him cry, and be there for him.

Finally, after a long, long while, Aziraphale’s shaking subsides.

“Next time I see Gabriel, I’m gonna punch him right in his stupid face,” Crowley mutters, as if to himself, but very deliberately keeping his words clear and audible.

Aziraphale looks up, alarmed. “Do not punch Gabriel.”

“He deserves it!”

“He’s an _Archangel_ , Crowley. You know that would not end well. We’ve had this conversation before.”

“He’s a wanker, is what he is. Wankers get punched in the face. Ask anyone, stop people in the street and run a survey, they’ll agree with me.”

“Crowley.”

“Alright, alright, no punching.”

“Good.” Aziraphale huffs and pulls himself to sit with his legs across Crowley’s lap, curling into his side and leaning his head against his shoulder.

“I’m just going to miracle his stupid suit into something garish and eye-searing, instead,” Crowley mutters, once again very deliberately, after a few minutes have passed.

_“Crowley!”_

“What? You know he wouldn’t even notice, not if I kept the changes to just the back of it. He’s oblivious that way. Even if a human hollers ‘nice suit!’ at him — he’s just going to think it’s a compliment, take it at face value. And I’d make sure it disappears before any other angel sees it, so he’ll never know. I’m thinking reindeer with a dunce cap, what do you think?”

And _there_ , finally, is the quiet, choked-off snort that Crowley knows, from long experience, is Aziraphale smothering a laugh. “I think,” Aziraphale says, slowly, “that it would clash with — what was it you said you’d put on the back of his suit last time? A large, puffed-up, entirely purple rooster? You never did get around to that.”

“You can’t fault me for that. He doesn’t show up here on Earth all that often. Perhaps…” Crowley pretends to consider. “I could make some adjustments to the design. The reindeer could still end up with a large, puffed-up, purple —”

“Crowley, _no_.” Aziraphale is laughing openly, now. “That’s _terrible_.”

“He’s been a very bad reindeer,” Crowley says, as mildly as he can. “He needs to be punished.”

“Living well is the best revenge, you know.”

“Don’t you quote George Herbert at me, you know full well what a stuck-up, moralistic tosser he was,” Crowley protests. “You spent a whole _month_ ranting to me about him back in 1650. Besides, we can live well _and_ get revenge.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. He’s smiling, though there’s some sadness left in it. “It’s fine. I’m fine. He’s not worth it.”

“You’re worth it,” Crowley says, mutinously, thinking of how many times he’s seen Aziraphale hurting like this. Yes, this whole discussion is an act for Aziraphale’s benefit, just to cheer him up, and they both know this; but if he could strike at Gabriel and the rest of the Archangels with impunity, without endangering himself or Aziraphale, he absolutely would.

“So you keep telling me,” Aziraphale says. “I’m happy. I swear to you, Crowley, I am _happy_. Happier than I can remember ever being before. I have all I want — I have you. I will be fine.”

Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s forehead. “I know.” With a wave of his hand, the music resumes playing. To be fair, it’s a little risky, but if he knows Aziraphale well enough…

 _But do you recall_ , the singer croons from the speaker, _the most famous reindeer of all… Gabriel, the dickhead reindeer, had a very shiny_ —

The rooster crow covering up that one word, Crowley feels, is a particularly inspired touch on his part. And Aziraphale is laughing so hard he barely manages to wave his hand and change the song to a different one, so he’ll count it as a victory.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](https://wingedspirit.tumblr.com/), if you like.


End file.
